Fifty shades of shame: The moment I found out MY mummy writes mummy porn

Healed rift: Rupert Bond with his mother who writes under the name Primula Bond

My 50-year-old mother has three children, works part-time in a solicitor’s office, attends PTA meetings and bakes cakes.

She was raised a Catholic, educated at Oxford University and now lives in a leafy street in Winchester. She seems utterly respectable and, when I was growing up, I thought she was the perfect mother.

The moment I discovered the truth about her is etched in my mind for ever.

I was 13 and came across a copy of a racy-looking book — with a silhouette of a couple kissing on the cover — of short stories called Wicked Words on the bookshelf in the living room.

I was in the midst of puberty. My hormones were raging and I was fascinated by anything to do with sex. I felt really naughty as I furtively took the volume off the shelf.

I was stunned my strait-laced mum even owned a book like this. Mum had always seemed very tight-lipped about that sort of thing. She hadn’t even given me the chat about the birds and the bees. That was left to my dad.

I opened the book, but got no further than the contents page when a name hit me between the eyes: Primula Bond. I knew it was Mum’s pen name, though until now I’d never seen any of her books.

I couldn’t believe it. I stood there with the book open in my hand, feeling a mix of, well, anger and horror. Mum didn’t simply own an erotic book. She’d actually written one.

What had been exciting just moments before suddenly held no appeal. The thought of my lovely mum dreaming up lurid sex scenarios was too horrible to contemplate. I knew that writers often draw inspiration from their own lives and that sparked truly awful visions...

In fact, I was so embarrassed that I didn’t say anything to Mum and tried to forget all about it. I reassured myself it must be a one-off.

I spent years coming to terms with her secret life and, recently, memories of that traumatic experience came flooding back. Because in all the hoopla about Fifty Shades Of Grey — the ‘mummy porn’ book that has become the world’s fastest-selling adult paperback novel — two people have been forgotten. The writer’s teenage sons.

Raunchy: Rupert Bond was mortified when he discovered, aged 13, his mother wrote erotic fiction

Yes, author E.L. James’s life has changed overnight. From being an ordinary mum — real name Erika Mitchell — living in a very ordinary semi, she has become a multi-millionaire with a worldwide fanbase.

But what about her sons? If my experience is anything to go by, their lives have changed even more dramatically. Overnight they are having to deal with the fact that their 49-year-old mum writes porn. And I suspect they’re still reeling from the shock.

Lots of people comment on the fact that E.L. James doesn’t look like an erotic fiction writer. That goes for my 50-year-old mum, too. And, just like E.L. James, she always wanted to write.

While I’m close to my father, a charity worker, Mum raised me by herself before marrying my stepfather, Ted, a solicitor, when I was 11 and going on to have my half-brothers, now aged 12 and eight.

Mum’s writing career started tamely. As a little boy, I had two imaginary friends: Dodo and Fuppy. Mum would write stories about their adventures which she would then read to me. I thought it was the most wonderful thing in the world to have a mum who could produce real books from my imagination.

I was immensely proud of her. Naively, I imagined she’d be the next J.K. Rowling. But, sadly, although Mum tried to get these sweet little children’s stories published, no one was interested.

Rupert Bond urges author E.L. James, pictured signing a copy of her
best-selling book Fifty Shades of Grey, to think of the impact her new
found fame will have on her children

Instead, after moving on to write Mills and Boon romantic fiction, she turned her talents to something that really does sell: erotic fiction. She discovered that she has a real talent for it and was snapped up by Black Lace, the leading imprint of these sorts of books for women.

For years I had no idea what she was up to. Like most children, all I was bothered about was what was for tea and whether I could get Mum to buy me the latest trainers.

So when I found out she had been writing erotic fiction I was mortified.

But about two years after finding Wicked Words it got worse. When I was 15 a book suddenly appeared in our downstairs loo. It was called Country Pleasures.

It was a novel by Mum and it was clear from the lurid cover showing a sexy blonde with come-hither eyes that this was yet another erotic book.

This time the embarrassment was even more excruciating because it was on prominent display. My friends all saw it when they came round. They wanted to know why there was a ‘porn’ book in the loo. Stupidly, I admitted the truth.

The news spread like wildfire through my mixed private school.

My friends couldn’t believe that my middle-aged, respectable mum who made them cups of tea and beans on toast was a secret sex writer.

Print sales alone of Fifty Shades of Grey by E. L. James have topped more than two million - putting it in 11th place in a list of the bestselling books since records began in 1998

Soon everyone knew that I was the boy with an erotic novelist for a mum. The teasing wasn’t malicious — everyone was fascinated rather than repelled — but it was merciless. And I found it terribly painful.

What teenage boy wants to be notorious for having a mother who writes smut? One of my friends even stole the book from the loo and texted me sexy snippets. He thought it was a huge laugh. Other boys quoted whole chunks from it. When I put my hands over my ears so I wouldn’t have to listen, it made the joke even funnier for them.

I was furious with Mum. As far as I was concerned, it was all her fault and I told her so.

Now, aged 23, I can see that she had found a very good way of making a living and that her money helped give me and my younger brothers a lovely lifestyle, which included a private education.

I can also understand that Mum was very proud of her work and — like any artist — wanted to show it off.

But bound up in my own teenage angst, I saw things only from my point of view. Perhaps because I wasn’t able to explain properly how I felt, Mum didn’t appreciate just what she was doing to me.

‘But darling, I thought your friends would all think it’s cool,’ she said.

Her lack of understanding just made me angrier. I was going through a pretty rebellious phase anyway, drinking and partying.

So I don’t want to blame Mum totally, but her writing definitely drove a wedge between us at a crucial time in my life and I lost respect for her. For months we barely spoke as I retreated into myself. I was rude and sullen. I was furious she had so little understanding of my feelings, and so little respect for me, that she would happily let me be humiliated.

The shame of her lifestyle even dogged me to Middlesex University, where I took a degree in graphic design. I made a whole new group of friends and hoped to escape my notoriety, but when a school friend visited me on campus for the weekend, he let the cat out of the bag.

Once again, the titillating story of my mum’s secret life spread. One of my flatmates bought a copy of her latest work, Club Creme, on Amazon and posted a picture of himself reading it on Facebook. I was mocked and teased.

However, I finally began to see an advantage to Mum’s work. Although my male friends snickered, I discovered it had the opposite effect on girls. They were fascinated. Suddenly, admitting that Mum penned erotica for women was a great chat-up line.

Girlfriends were even eager to talk to her about what she does — and how she gets her ideas. I’ve not read any of Mum’s erotic fiction since thumbing through those few pages when I was 13. I don’t want to. Mum’s sex life, however fictionalised, is still an area I don’t want to think about.

But, as I’ve matured, I’ve become more forgiving and much less judgmental. I can now see that Mum has a talent which she has every right to exploit. For her part, Mum admits she should have been more tactful. The books are now hidden from sight and my brothers and I can put her secret life from our minds.

Recently she admitted: ‘I was really selfish. I was so excited about my writing I didn’t think about the effect it was having on you.’

Those words helped heal the wounds. So I hope in her excitement, E.L. James is able to spare a thought for her sons — and, unlike my mum, do her best to spare their blushes.